A Letter Always Seemed To Me Like

I Cannot Help Esteem The 'bird Within The Hand' Superior To The One The 'bush' May Yield Me Or May Not Too Late To Choose Again

For Each Ecstatic Instant We Must An Anguish Pay In Keen And Quivering Ratio To The Ecstasy.

Beauty Is Not Caused. It Is.

I . . . Am Small, Like The Wren, And My Hair Is Bold Like The Chestnut Burr; And My Eyes Like The Sherry In The Glass That The Guest Leaves.

Home Is The Definition Of God.